


ConCurrent

by swanpride



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Kidnapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-10-28 01:16:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 21,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20770118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swanpride/pseuds/swanpride
Summary: Peter wasn't really worried when Neal didn't come at his usual time. After all, even the most punctual person got delayed once in a while...right?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So, another one of my older stories. This one was originally written a few years ago, so just read it like an AU, set after Prisoner’s Dilemma. LozzaCakes and mam711 were so nice to help me with the fic back in the day. I'll post the chapters regularly.

8:55: Neal Caffrey rarely came in to work early. He was always punctual, but never turned up before 9 o’clock, unless there was a special reason. Therefore, Peter didn’t think much about his absence.

9:05: Peter wasn’t really worried. After all, even the most punctual person got delayed once a while … right?

9:15: Peter studied the data on Neal’s tracker. One could never be too cautious, after all, especially where Neal Caffrey was concerned. It always paid to stay ahead. According to the data he had stayed at Junes for the night and was now moving in the general direction of the headquarters, but too fast to be walking and not taking the usual route. Perhaps he had been running late, took a cab and now there was a traffic jam? Peter tried to reach Neal on his cell phone.

9:25: Neal Caffrey was not in the Bureau. He didn’t answer his phone. And he had just left his designated area. Cursing, Peter hastened to reach his car as fast as possible, conferring with the Marshals’ office via telephone.

9:35: The last message Peter received was that the police had stopped the car Neal was fleeing in. But as he arrived at the scene, he only saw a very put-out June, tearing the police officer a new one without even raising her voice. “Is Neal in the car?” he asked, ignoring her complaints. “Neal? I haven’t seen him today. Peter, what is all this about?”

9:40: Peter opened the trunk of the Rolls Royce. He discovered a tracking anklet, seemingly not tampered with, but no longer attached to anyone. “Neal, what have you done now?”


	2. Chapter 2

As Neal awoke, he immediately knew that something was wrong.

The bad taste in his mouth was the most obvious sign of wrongness, but it was not the only one. The lack of the usual sounds, the hard mattress, thousands of little details were telling him that he wasn’t at June’s anymore. Fighting against the woozy feeling in his head and his own instincts, he forced himself to lay still and fake sleep, all the while trying to get more information about his surroundings.

The only thing he could hear was the constant hum of an air conditioner. Did it overshadow the soft breathing of someone? Neal wasn’t sure. But since no light was penetrating his eyelids, he guessed that he was laying in darkness. And, he realized, he was naked under the cotton sheet which was barely covering his legs, save for a warm tightness which was surrounding his neck. Carefully he cracked a lid open. Yes, it was pitch black around him, no light anywhere.

He took a moment to ponder his options and decided that he had none. He needed to know more, so he abandoned the pretense of sleep and sat up carefully. His movement caused a series of clinks behind him, metal moving against metal. Automatically his hands moved to his neck, discovering cold metal. Someone had put a padded collar on him. He tried to find the lock, without success. The only thing he could find was the point where a long chain was attached to it, and a welding seam.

Whoever had done this to him had done his homework. Beside his tracking anklet (which wouldn’t be a problem without the prospect of jail time and a certain unrelenting FBI Agent backing it up), there was no kind of restraint he couldn’t slip off, no lock he couldn’t pick. But this collar didn’t have a lock and was fastened at the one place, so that cutting it open was the only option. With manacles, there was always a chance to get free. As a last resort, one could always dislocate their own thumb in order to slip them off. But how should he dislocate his own head?

Suddenly a soft click disrupted the silence. Neal had to close his lids to protect his eyes as a light flared into the room. He blinked, tried to adjust to the sudden spot of brightness as fast as possible, while his eyes were darting around, searching for his opponent. But the only thing visible was a small table, illuminated by a desk light. Black and white chess pieces were standing on a board in a very familiar pattern. Neal cursed. “Keller!”

* * *

The sound of slow clapping hands brought Neal’s attention to a dark figure, stepping into the circle of light. “I am honored that you didn’t forget me, Caffrey!”

“Always one for the theatrics, aren’t you, Keller?”

“Whatever you do, do it with style. You should understand this better than anyone else.”

“Shouldn’t you be in prison?”

“Well, there is this old saying: ‘be careful what you give for’. It’s always advisable to keep the cards close when playing poker, don’t you think?”

“I think that you should _wish _for the ability to cite a proverb correctly. You should read more.”

“I’ll leave that to Mozzie.”

Damn…Neal always thought that Keller knew nothing about Mozzie. His paranoid friend had made sure to stay in the background whenever his opponent turned up.

“Oh, don’t look so surprised. I’ve watched you for weeks, trying to find a way to spring you without alerting the Feds too early. Luckily, you organized the key to your capture yourself. Quite ironic, really. I’m sure Agent Burke will have found the tracking anklet by now, and he will surely figure out soon that you lifted the key.”

Neal blanched. If this was true he was screwed. Nobody would believe that he didn’t run by himself. Even if he managed to escape Keller’s clutches, he would end up in prison again.

“You never really got how to play this game. Playing nice with the Feds, making enemies left and right for a vague promise of freedom in the far future? That’s crazy. And me? I just had to keep the Feds interested as long as necessary without giving something away to incriminate me. Long enough to cut a new deal with Dimitri.”

“Let me guess, Sergei’s boss. That must have been impressively smooth talking on your part. The Russians don’t tend to forget easily. And they rarely give someone a second chance, never mind a third.”

“It’s just a matter of knowing your mark. Everybody has his price, something which is irresistible for him. Or someone, in your case.”

Neal glared. “Kate’s gone!” he said bitterly.

“Yeah, I heard.” Was there some kind of regret in Keller’s voice? “But it doesn’t change anything for you, does it? If I told you that I knew who killed her, you would do anything for me.”

“No I wouldn’t”, Neal’s voice sounded more certain than he was feeling. “Because I know you, Keller. You would promise everything, but give nothing.”

“And nevertheless you would try to extract my knowledge, pulling one of your cons or trying to buy me off somehow. Tell me, what is this information worth to you?”

_Everything,_ but Neal would rather bite off his tongue than admit this. So he kept silent.

“Well, it’s a moot point, anyway. I have no idea who killed Kate.”

Neal raised an eyebrow.

“Shouldn’t you be dangling the promise of information in front of my nose to insure that I will help you in whatever crazy scheme you’ve thought up?”

“Oh, you will help me! One way or another, you will!”

Keller’s self-satisfied grin made it difficult for Neal to keep his calm.

“And what exactly do you need my help for?”

“Dimitri has a special hobby, he’s an enthusiastic philatelist. It is strange what a collector will do …or forgive…to get what he desires.”

Neal didn’t like where this was going. He didn’t like it at all.

“And what is Dimitri’s desire?”

“Oh, he has a lot of wishes, but I went for the most important. The Bordeaux Cover!”*

Neal scoffed. “Nobody knows who bought the Bordeaux Cover in 1993, but you are able to acquire it. How convenient. Keller, you are a known forger. He’d never buy it.”

“Well, I admit, he was very suspicious of my offer. And as a real sceptic, he found a way to ensure that I wouldn’t be able to bring him a fake.”

Keller moved his right hand into the light. It was heavily bandaged.

“Difficult to draw when all your fingers are broken. Happy Neal?”

No, Neal wasn’t happy. He actually felt quite ill taking in the sight of the destroyed hand.

“Will it heal?”

Keller shrugged. “Sooner or later. But I won’t be able to use it in full. The old smoothness is gone forever. I can’t compete with you in this regard any longer. I thought about crushing your hand, too, to even out the field.”

Instinctively Neal hid his hands under his armpits. Keller laughed.

“No reason to worry. I found a better kind of revenge. In the future, your hands will be mine.”

He pulled a remote out of his jacket and pressed a button. With the typical hum shutters were lifted, revealing a small atelier.

“You mean…”

“…that you will forge the Bordeaux Cover for me.”

“Are you crazy? You know how difficult it is to dupe a real expert with a forgery. And stamps…”

“Don’t try to tell me that you are not able to do it,” interrupted Keller with a menacing voice. “Don’t! You will forge the Bordeaux Cover, and you will use as much precision and care as necessary to deceive Dimitri. Or we will both end up dead.”

* * *

_*BTW, the Bordeaux Cover really exists, and it really got sold to an anonymous buyer in 1993. _


	3. Chapter 3

Neal had to admit it: he was trapped, utterly trapped. During the day the chain on his collar was long enough to allow him free reign in the small apartment. He could access the small bathroom, the even-smaller kitchenette, equipped with a well-stocked fridge but without any other electrical appliances. The windows were so high Neal could only see the heaven and the occasional bird. Either way, he couldn’t reach the windows or the door, or the cameras, or anything else which could be useful to him. And even if he had an idea how to at least alert someone to his situation, the constant vigilance of the cameras would make it nearly impossible to execute a plan.

His living conditions were comfortable overall. Obviously, Keller wanted to make sure that he stayed as healthy as possible. But this didn’t hinder him from orchestrating small doses of humiliation wherever possible. And since Keller knew Neal, he also knew how to get to him. Like the clothes. He provided him with the most garish button-up shirt, colorful socks and printed underwear. Neal even found the orange prison jumpsuits more agreeable. It didn't escape his notice that the collar imprisoning him was a white collar, either.

During the night, a motor somewhere in the wall shortened his chain until his radius of motion was limited to the small bed with the hard mattress, which reminded him of prison. Actually, nearly everything reminded him of prison, the cheap plastic razor, the instant coffee, the lack of contact. Keller only came to bring him supplies for his work.

Neal was sure that Peter wouldn’t have done what Keller wanted. But he didn’t follow such and fast principles; he wanted to live. And he knew if Dimitri killed Keller, he would die too, slowly starving, fastened to the wall. So he put his best effort into his work. He was so set on making a perfect forgery that he sometimes even forgot where he was, feeling the old thrill and satisfaction about his abilities. The result was a masterpiece of forgery which even surpassed the bonds he had been so proud of. No vanities this time around. As much as he felt the desire to sign his work, he couldn’t and wouldn’t risk it.

Keller studied the result with approval.

“I have to admit, you’ve outdone yourself. Impressive what one can achieve with the right kind of encouragement.”

Neal glared, but he was too tired for verbal sparring with his nemesis. The days he had spent hunched over the desk concentrating on his work had exhausted his mind and his body.

“You look unwell. Don’t worry; you have the opportunity to rest now.”

Neal only managed a weak struggle as Keller plunged a syringe into his arm.

* * *

Neal had no idea how long he was out, but when he woke up, Keller was there again, studying the chessboard.

“Looks like you are in quite a pickle. You lost your queen.”

“So did you.”

“Well, she was never quite mine. I prefer the rook in any case. Nothing like trapping an opponent between a rook and a hard place.”

“I actually thought that was your position.”

Keller grinned triumphantly. He moved one of his three pawns which had been part of the castling so that his King couldn’t be caught behind their line in four moves.

“Not anymore! You did it, Neal. Dimitri fell for the forgery hook, line and sinker.”

“Great...and what do you intend to do now?”

Neal didn’t really expect that Keller would let him go free, but one could always hope.

“Well, I need some cash. I think it is time to make your golden hands into money.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Oh, don’t worry. It will be a scheme worthy of the great Neal Caffrey.”

“I won’t help you again.”

Now that Dimitri was out of the picture Neal felt more confident about resisting Keller’s demands.

“You will, or I will make your life a living hell.”

“What will you do? Imprison me and chain me to a wall?”

“Well, it’s not a two-mile radius, but it is worth something, isn’t it?” Keller pulled a remote control out of his jacket and pressed a button. The familiar sound of the chain getting pulled into the wall prompted Neal to take a standing position. He had learned early that getting pulled by the collar was not a comfortable feeling. This time the chain was getting so short that he was forced to kneel down in front of the wall. He didn’t even have enough leeway to lie down on the floor.

“And now? I won’t be able to forge anything from this position, you know.”

“Since you don’t want to work for me, why should I give you more leeway? Instead, I’ll give you time to think about your next move.”

Keller left the room. Seconds later, the shutters closed again, leaving Neal with only the light of the desk lamp illuminating the chessboard.

* * *

Neal had no idea how long he had been kneeling on the hard floor. At one point he began to shiver, whether because of cold or simply because he was so damned tired, he had no idea. When finally the shutters opened again, his bloodshot eyes blinked. When he could see properly again, Keller had already reached his normal spot at the chessboard.

“And what is your next move?”

Neal stayed silent.

“I see...you need a little more time to think. Here, the chess riddle is very inspiring.”

A newspaper landed on Neal’s knees. Neal was staring at it uncomprehending, while Keller busied himself in the kitchenette, filling the fridge. After a while, Neal recognized the newspaper as the New York Times and immediately searched for the Metro Section, to make sure that the paper had been issued in New York. Yes, there it was: Metro Section. And underneath it was an article about a wedding reception, which ended up with most of the guests ill in the hospital.

“Ah yes, too bad...well, the event planner was lucky. She got away unscathed – this time around. But her reputation took quite a blow.”

Neal chuckled weakly, without even understanding why. “No one dead this time around? It would have been better if you had had to give up this part of your trade, too.”

“I’m not afraid to do what I must to get what I want. And at the moment I want your cooperation. I am ready to sacrifice all available pawns in order to take out the knights and trap the king. What are you ready to risk?”

“This isn’t a game, Matthew.”

“Life is always a game. And quitting is not an option for you. So, what is your next move?”

Neal sighed. “Knight to D4.”


	4. Chapter 4

During the first week of his investigation, Peter had been furious, especially after “someone” sent him a Thank You card with a key in it. After that it had been quite easy to guess that Caffrey had lifted the key from Deckert during the Franklin case. With time, his anger was slowly changing to an unrelenting determination. But whatever he did, he drew a blank. For a while, he concentrated his efforts on Mozzie in the hope that if he could find him, Neal wouldn't be far, but the paranoid man seemed to have vanished, too.

A small distraction was provided when the guests from one of El’s events ended up in the hospital. Although it turned out that someone had laced the punch with a slow-acting poison, El had some trouble repairing the damage to her reputation. The NYPD wasn’t helpful in that regard, because they pulled El in more than once for questioning. One of their theories was that the whole affair was the work of one of El’s rivals, but in the end they accomplished nothing but alienating El’s clients even more.

His search for Neal stayed fruitless and El needed him, so he began to come home at normal times again. But at the Bureau, everything was about Neal. An empty bottle of Bordeaux taken from June's was sitting on Peter's desk as a constant reminder. Besides him and Diana, nobody was working on the Caffrey case anymore. Reluctantly he had assigned the agents of the White Collar Unit to other cases where they could actually make some progress.

On a cold November morning, Hughes called him into his office.

“You will take the Carrington Case.”

“I'm sorry, sir, I’m busy...”

“I know what you’re busy with. Peter, there aren't any leads on Caffrey at the moment. The Carrington Case won't take up too much of your time.”

Peter knew that the use of his first name indicated that Hughes was speaking as a friend. Nevertheless he tried to argue.

“We won’t find Caffrey if we allow him to slip down on our priority list.”

“I agree. But until you have a lead, he will share the spot with whatever case I deem important enough. That's all, Agent Burke.”

Peter knew when he had lost. Well, at least it wasn’t a mortgage fraud case. Grudgingly he read the file during his next hour and was intrigued. Charles Carrington was a well-known art expert, the son of a rich New York family. It wasn't one of those families whose actions regularly filled the society pages, but one of those who preferred to live anonymously. Two weeks earlier he had died during a car accident. Nothing spectacular. He had been driving too fast and lost control over his vehicle.

After his death, his sister wanted to sell his impressive art collection. The curator, who appraised the artworks, got really excited when he got to the painting in the bedroom. Unlike the other ones, there wasn't a placket beside it giving the title and the artist. The remote position in the house, the curtain which could be used to hide it, the lack of insurance, all this suggested that the work had been stolen, so the curator alerted the FBI. The case was shuffled to some newbies who were supposed to check the database and follow the paperwork. They had limited success. The picture was nowhere listed, but apparently Carrington had drawn large sums of money from his account the last months. Between the papers of the deceased, they found a journal which described a nearly unbelievable story which suggested that the artwork was a lost da Vinci. Naturally, there was a lot of excitement about this, but the people involved decided to keep it quiet until there was proof. Nobody wanted to make a fool of themselves by claiming a forgery as an exciting discovery.

Sighing, Peter took the journal and began to read in it.

_Those kinds of things normally only happen in bad adventure novels. I couldn't believe it when I bought and restored this antique Louis XIV desk and found this old letter hidden in it. At first I didn't think anything about it, but there was one word, a name, which drew my attention: da Vinci! I have forgotten more about French than I ever learned, but I managed to decipher the text. I barely could contain my excitement. The text spoke about an unknown painting by Leonardo da Vinci, called “Helen of Troy”. According to the letter, the Rohan family owned the work, but hid it because they didn’t want it sold when they went bankrupt. They smuggled it to Austria._

_What happened to the painting later on? I just had to know. Luckily I had met someone a month earlier who was an expert on tracing lost artwork. He was a specialist in searching for the owners of looted art and had even successfully found the property of people who lost their possessions during the Second World War. It was a thin hope, but maybe he would be able to find a trace of the painting. _

Peter paused. Convenient that he had just met someone who could help him with the search. This looked like an elaborate scam. On the other hand, the letter had been laying in the journal and the expert had deemed it as genuine (pending further tests). Intrigued, Peter read the next page.

_The research is costly, but if I succeed, it would be worth everything. Even if it turns out that the painting was destroyed at some point, presenting proof for an unknown da Vinci would be a sensation. Nevertheless, I am driven to see the masterpiece myself. _

Peter began to skim over the pages, describing hints Carrington's “friend” uncovered, and a lot of disappointment over various false leads. And a lot of money paid for expenses during the research. It looked like Carrington had slowly become doubtful, when finally the first real result was achieved.

_It is unbelievable that the painting may be so close. It was stretching it that it may have been among the property taken by the Roth family to the US, shortly before Austria decided to join Germany. But George found documents confirming that the family exchanged money and a “painting with a woman on ruins” for a small house in San Francisco shortly after their arrival. The businessman who got the painting died without heirs in 1998. Now we are looking into his properties. Perhaps the painting is still somewhere in an attic._

Against his will, Peter was intrigued. It wasn't such a farfetched scenario that the work of some well-known artist ended up forgotten between junk. But tracing an unknown da Vinci through three centuries? Was that really possible? Carrington seemed to have been convinced. Peter was more sceptical, but he could feel the excitement Carrington felt. Similar to his own whenever he found a new puzzle piece during his hunt after Neal Caffrey.

_George is sorry, but I don't mind. It may have been stupid to show so much interest in some old furniture, forcing me to pay an outrageous price for it, but the owner thought I was interested in the so-called antiques. If he had realized that it was about the painting, I may have never gotten it. And it is beautiful! But now I have a tough decision to make. I could tell the world about my find, but then surely someone would try to force me to give it up. George is excited by the attention it will get, especially from foreign governments, but I don't care about this. I always wanted to own a da Vinci. The lack of papers are the problem. The easiest way to keep it is to tell nobody that I own it. I think I will pay George off. The world may forgive me for what I am about to do._

Peter hailed Diana with the patented two-finger point.

“Yes, Peter?”

“You are familiar with the Carrington case?” He barely waited for Diana to nod yes before he continued. “I am actually not sure why the Bureau is involved. This would be only a case if this whole scavenger hunt Carrington was involved him turns out to be an elaborate scam. So before the experts have determined if the painting is a forgery, there isn't really a crime to investigate.”

“I think that's exactly the point. So far, the experts don't have any proof it’s a forgery. Actually, some tend to believe that it's genuine. The sceptics hope that we uncover something which proves that the painting is a fake.”

“Well the paper trail Carrington assembled is very impressive. And the letter at least suggests that the painting exists. But the whole story with Carrington's friend George...it's somewhat fishy, isn't it?” Peter mused.

“You mean that George milked Carrington and foisted a forgery on him in the end?”

“Why not? Well, let's examine the evidence. Where is the letter?” Peter searched through his file.

“They kept it in the Met.”

“It's evidence.”

“Technically it isn't until we can prove that it's linked to a crime. The Met has the right experts and necessary techniques to examine it.”

Peter sighed. Looks like he would have to visit the Met.

“Tell Jones to meet me in the parking lot. You know what you have to do.”

* * *

An hour later Peter tried to concentrate on a piece of yellow parchment while being disturbed by the unrelenting chatter of an excited expert from the Met. His eyes took in the yellow color, the elegant calligraphy which ended abruptly because of a ripped-off corner, but his mind wasn't really in it. Diana would make sure that the search for Caffrey didn't stagnate during the time he took care of this strange perhaps case.

“And where is the painting?” he asked irritably.

“Follow me! At the moment we are trying to determine if it underwent some kind of forced aging. But between us two, I don't think that they’ll find something. The way it was painted, the style, it has to be a real da Vinci.”

Peter had never developed more than a passing interest in art. He had respect for skillful drawings, but for him it was mostly a “like it or not” question. This painting was impressive. A woman in windblown clothes was standing in ruins, her head bowed.

“As you can see, da Vinci used a similar trick to the one in the Mona Lisa. The background is darker on the left side, steering the eye of the observer to the right side. But the figure itself draws the attention to the left side, where Helen looks into the darkness. It's like...”

“It's a forgery.” Peter interrupted.

The “expert” huffed.

“And what qualifies you to make such a judgement?”

Peter didn't answer. He was focused on the face of Helena, adorned with the familiar features of one Kate Moreau.


	5. Chapter 5

As Keller explained to Neal what he was supposed to do, Neal thought him crazy. Yes, Neal was a great forger, but he was not an artist. “Perfect technique, no inspiration.” That had always been the devastating judgment. How was he supposed to create something new in da Vinci’s style?

Neal was dreading the empty canvas so much that he took his time forging the letter. Keller didn't care. He was basking in his success, plus he needed the time to get close to his mark. He displayed a perverse satisfaction in using one of Neal's aliases. Neal pretended to be angry about it, but in reality he was glad. Keller's biggest weakness had always been his arrogance. Using the name “George Donelly” could raise a flag, causing the right people to pay attention.

Keller's benevolent mood lasted until the day Neal presented the letter to him. He took his time studying the work. Neal forced himself to breathe evenly, to not give anything away. Keller gave a short, scornful laugh.

“You had to try, right, Neal? Did you really believe that I would overlook this?”

“What are you talking about?” Neal said innocently.

Keller didn't answer. Instead, he pressed Neal down on the bed. Despite his lithe figure, Neal was no weakling, but violence had never been his forte. Fast legs and an even faster mouth had always been his weapons of choice. Keller had some trouble holding his agile body, but in the end he was laying face down, his wrists and ankles fastened to the bedposts.

Neal heard Keller walking behind him. He automatically tested the bonds.

“Stop struggling or this will get worse.”

Neal was sure that he would be able to get free eventually, but not before Keller had done whatever he intended to do. Forcing himself to relax, he tried to see what Keller was doing. He got a fleeting glimpse of the rattan cane in Keller’s hand, just as it was set in motion and drew a line of fire over his back. Neal yelled out in pain and surprise before he could control himself.

“What are you doing, Keller?”

“Just a little object lesson. Each time you sign one of your works, I will sign you.”

Five more hits had Neal to endure, scarcely protected by the thin cotton of his T-shirt. Breathing heavily, he waited for the next one until he realized that Keller was finished.

“Be glad that the work is salvageable.” The sound of ripping paper told Neal that Keller was getting rid of the part of the letter with his signature.

Later, after Keller was gone, he freed himself of his bonds and examined his back. Luckily his skin wasn't broken. With compressed lips Neal took in the reflection of the welts in the metallic surface of the fridge. The lines formed a MK, joined such that the last stroke of the M was also the first stroke of the K. “I hope this was worth it” Neal thought with a grim smile.

* * *

Helen of Troy. Neal asked himself why Keller wanted this motif of all things. Perhaps he had gotten the idea from da Vinci’s lost masterpiece “Leda and the Swan”. Well, Helen was supposed to be one of Leda’s daughters. Perhaps da Vinci would have given her similar features, only more beautiful.

Neal began to sketch, not on the canvas (it was way too early for that), but on a piece of paper. Helen, the girl who caused the Trojan War, who was the object of desire for countless men. What had she been like? Did she see her beauty as a blessing or a curse? Was she just another victim of this war, or was she a femme fatale, who enjoyed watching men die on her whim?

And suddenly, it wasn’t difficult anymore. The face was still a blank for him, but he knew the stance the body had to take. Neal put the sketch aside and went to the canvas. The arms should entwine her body, in a vulnerable but also repelling gesture. The head should be downcast, looking away from the destruction around her and into the darkness. Neal had to rein himself in to not simply follow his feelings but to keep his brushwork in da Vinci’s style.

And the features had to be perfect. Red lips on white skin. Normally Helen was painted blonde, but Neal decided on dark hair. He didn’t know why. And he didn’t realize it until a couple of days later, when he was working on the most difficult part of her face: the eyes. They should be big and innocent, but closed off nevertheless. When he finally was finished and took a step back to admire his work, it was Kate who was staring at him from the canvas, the expression eerily similar to the one when she said goodbye to him in prison. He had known that he was painting what he considered a perfect face, but he hadn’t connected his idea of the perfect nose, the perfect lips, and the perfect eyes before.

Still staring at the painting his weakening knees caused him to sit down on his bed. Somehow he had captured his conflicting feelings towards Kate on the canvas. There it was, all the love he felt for the woman he always considered “the one”, but also the lingering doubt.

He needed something sharp. Frantically he looked around, knowing full well that Keller took great care to keep everything dangerous from him. He would have to use his hands alone. He struggled back to his feet, raised his fist...and let it sink down again. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t destroy Kate, and he couldn’t destroy the truth. And Keller would give him no chance to hide it.

A faint hope was rising in Neal. Perhaps Keller would destroy it for him. After all, this surely wasn’t what he had expected. But how would he react when he realized what Neal had done with the precious canvas? What if Peter and El had to pay for his stupidity?

* * *

“I should have expected it,” said Keller, taking in every detail of the painting. “Did you sign it, too?”

Neal, reined in through his short chain, shook his head.

“No.”

“Why do I have trouble believing you? Putting Kate’s face on the canvas is as good as a signature.”

“You wanted an original Caffrey da Vinci style. That’s the best I could do.”

“Is it?”

Neal had trouble reading Keller’s mood. Neither his tone nor his face were giving anything away. Nevertheless he continued pleading his case.

“What does it matter? No one who knew Kate will ever see this painting.”

Keller didn't answer. He was still examining Neal's work.

“It has a certain appeal. We'll see how it looks when I’ve aged it.”

Keller left the room with the painting. Shortly after Neal heard the hated sound of the motor controlling the chain. This time he was allowed enough space to lie down in front of the wall. Neal didn't care. As long as Keller left his friends alone, he could take whatever he was dishing out.

* * *

Luckily, the aging process didn't take long. Keller brought the painting back to gloat, and Neal had to admit that he had done a good job. If he hadn't known that this was his own work, he may himself have believed it was a real da Vinci which had luckily survived the ages.

Keller also brought a special meal. Neal really tried not to feel thankful towards his captor, but the sight of mouthwatering _sole meunière _with a side dish of new potatoes was such a nice change to the prison-like food Keller usually provided that Neal couldn't help but feel rewarded. Carefully he spread a little bit of lemon on his fish, while Keller devoured his steak. His right hand wasn't bandaged any longer, but he used his left one to cut the meat.

“I'm already thinking about a new project. The Frick Collection has a nice Ingres. I know that someone would pay a healthy sum for the painting of Louise de Broglie.”

It was somewhat bizarre how Keller talked to him like they were having a business lunch. Neal felt a strange detachment while he was sipping his white wine. “Do you really want me to do a forgery which will be visible in public?”

“It won't. I will only trigger the alarm, and then I will sell your work to the collector.”

Keller was getting cocky. One should never repeat a con, not even in a variation. Pulling basically the same con three times was dangerous. If only one of those collectors discovered that they only had a copy, Keller would be in big trouble. Neal just hoped that he wouldn’t have to pay the price, too.


	6. Chapter 6

Diana was glad and concerned about the new élan her boss was showing, now that he finally had found a trace of Caffrey. Peter had drawn nearly the whole White Collar unit into his investigation. They were tracing back every step Carrington had taken in the last months; from the time he met “George” until his death. There were agents questioning everyone who even remotely had contact with him during the time; other agents went through his financial records. They were basically turning every stone.

Peter had assembled his innermost team in his office. On the wall behind him were countless pictures, of Carrington, of the letter, of the painting: there was even Caffrey’s copy of “Study for the Head of Leda” which Peter had taken from the loft to prove to the experts from the Met that there was at least one forger out there who was able to copy da Vinci’s style perfectly. But Diana knew the full wall was just a smoke screen, designed to suggest that they were closing in on Caffrey, while in truth they just had some meager hints.

“Let's try to establish a timeline,” Peter ordered. “So, Caffrey vanishes. Roughly two month later, Carrington finds this letter, which may or may not be a forgery. Since he met “George” beforehand, I tend to believe that it is a fake, but Caffrey may have simply sensed an opportunity. Question is: Where was he in the two months? Holed up somewhere in New York?”

“Perhaps he was lying low until the excitement about his escape died down,” suggested Jones.

“Maybe,” Peter repeated thoughtfully. Diana could hear the unspoken doubt. This whole scenario was so unlike Caffrey. The Neal Caffrey they knew would have sent a nice card from another European town each week, and generally rubbed in that he had conned the whole FBI. Perhaps he did feel guilty about what he had done to Peter? He must have known that it was his reputation on the line whenever his “pet convict” acted out.

Peter was so focused on the hunt that he didn't realize it, but the only reason that he was even allowed to lead the task force was the protection of Hughes. There was a lot of murmuring in the woodwork that he should step down not only from the case but also from the White Collar unit, since Caffrey had played him and embarrassed the whole FBI.

“But if he was lying low, why paint Kate into a forgery? It's like drawing his initials across the canvas.”

For a moment, everyone was contemplating Peter's question and the painting.

“Perhaps he had assumed that nobody would ever see it,” suggested Jones. “I mean, if Carrington hadn't died unexpectedly, it would have been hidden for years.”

“Caffrey never assumes. He may have no sense for consequences, but this equals leaving a huge fingerprint during a heist. He would never make such an obvious mistake, never take a risk like that unless he feels that he has to.”

Diana suddenly remembered the bridge Neal left as a wall tattoo in the hotel, and his withdrawn expression as he had worked on it.

“Perhaps he had to take the risk,” she said. Seeing the questioning faces around her, she elaborated. “Caffrey can copy the style of an artist, but not his feelings. The picture isn't a forgery, not in the usual sense; it’s an actual Neal Caffrey, copying da Vinci's style.”

“You mean he did it this way because this is how he would draw Helen of Troy?” Jones clarified.

“Telling, isn't it?”

Peter was nodding absently, again taking in the eyes of “Helen”.

“I have seen the expression before,” he murmured, but didn't clarify. Becoming alert again, he addressed the whole team. “Well, it's a working theory. So, he paints the forgery and cons Carrington into paying a lot of money, first for the research and finally for a lot of old furniture and the painting. That was five weeks ago. This means he had ample time to leave the country or cook up another scheme.”

And this was the reason this whole wall full of evidence was basically useless. Yes, they may be able to prove without a doubt that Caffrey had conned Carrington in the end. But this wouldn't help them to catch Caffrey, and an additional charge for forgery wouldn't make a difference on the rap sheet of a man who would end up being in prison for life either way.

* * *

It was late as Peter finally decided to go home. If he was honest, the last hours had been wasted time. The most useful information had been uncovered around midday, when a servant girl had remembered meeting fleetingly a George Donelly. This was one of Caffrey’s known aliases, but the rather vague description from the girl didn't fit him at all. He surely didn't have a “creepy smile”. And what was that about a bandaged hand?

Peter pondered the possibility that Caffrey wasn't Donelly after all while steering his Taurus through the New York traffic. But why would he send someone else but allow him to use one of his aliases? Nothing about this scheme made any sense, not in connection with Neal. Peter began to think that “Neal Caffrey” was just another fake personality, no more real than “Nick Halden” or any other alias.

Perhaps he should rethink everything he believed of Caffrey; after all, the circumstances were vastly different this time around. During the first hunt, it wasn’t about finding Neal, it had been about proving that he actually did something illegal. The second time had been a manhunt, but really, Neal had been too broken up to pose a real challenge. It was like stalking a wounded animal. This time, it was about everything. Perhaps Neal was lying low because he thought that leaving New York (and the US) would become easier as soon as the attention of the police was elsewhere.

A lot of “perhapses”. Sighing Peter turned on his left blinker and made a fleeting glance over his shoulder, intending to change lanes. A motion he caught in the corner of his eye distracted him. There was someone in his car! But before he could react, the alarm of the Taurus went off, warning him that he was in danger of colliding with something. He stepped on the brakes and the car stopped violently. A horn honked irritably, but Peter had more important things to take care of. Something cold was pressing into his neck.

“Eyes forward!” a distorted voice ordered. “Continue driving…carefully.”

Whoever was in his backseat was using a voice-changer. But Peter was pretty sure that he recognized the speech pattern.

“Hello, little guy.” The brief pause behind him confirmed his suspicion, even before he got an answer.

“Long time no see, Suit.”


	7. Chapter 7

While Peter steered his car through the traffic, the pressure in his neck didn’t subside. Nevertheless, he decided on a lighthearted approach.

“So, how have you been?”

“There was some blockheaded Fed searching for me. I decided to lay low at June.”

“You were at June’s?” Peter shouldn’t be surprised. June was a classy lady, but it wouldn’t be the first time that she was lending a criminal a helping hand.

“Not June’s. June! It’s my winter retreat. But I decided to use it earlier this year.”

“The reason doesn’t happen to be the unplanned guest?”

“Typical FBI stupidity. I wouldn’t stay at June if there were a guest, even if it were a planned one.”

“Look, I don’t care for your mind games. Or Caffrey’s, for that matter. He blew his chance, and as soon as he is behind bars again, I will take care of you, unless you give me something useful.”

It was a feeble threat, designed not to convince, but to agitate Havisham enough to let something slip.

“I am stunned by your trust in him. Didn’t you tell me that he is your friend?”

“That was before he stole the key of his anklet, slipped custody and forged a da Vinci. Short of getting kidnapped, nothing would justify this.”

“Are you sure that the da Vinci is his work?”

“Are you here to convince me otherwise? Forget it. Tell him he can scratch the “alleged” in front of the “art forger”. Kate’s face on the canvas is a dead giveaway.”

The sigh from the backseat sounded strangely relieved. Which didn’t make sense at all, unless… “You don’t know where Neal is?”

“I should ask you that question. You are his keeper, aren’t you?”

“Not since he slipped his leash, as you very well know.”

“I only know that you’re not searching for him.”

“Everybody is searching for him.”

“There is always a well-known solution to every human problem – neat, plausible and wrong. But when the doors of perception are cleaned, man will see things like they truly are, infinite.”

Oh great…not only he was shooting off his quotes again, he was doing it double barreled. Peter was too tired and too angry to even try to decipher the hidden meaning.

“Do you have a point?”

“My point is that you are going at it from the wrong angle. You are searching for a fugitive.”

“Neal is a fugitive.”

“He is a man who vanished from one day to another, a man who acquired a lot of enemies in the last year.”

“He stole the key to his anklet.”

“He is Neal. It’s in his nature to have a backup plan.”

It was Peter’s turn to sigh.

“Tell me whatever you know and I may allow you to have a look into the file.” It was an easy promise to make, because in the file there was nothing Neal wouldn't expect to be there. After being with the FBI for over a year, he knew the ins and outs of their trade. Since their one feeble lead, the statement of the servant girl, wasn't part of the file yet, Peter wouldn't be giving away anything helpful. And if that really was the barrel of a gun in his neck he would have to give up the file either way.

“I know that if Neal intended to flee, he told me nothing about it. I know that none of his usual contacts have heard from him. I know that even I would have a hard time vanishing without a trace for months, and Neal is the opposite of discreet. I know that I thought...I thought...”

Havisham trailed off, clearly agitated. The last time Peter had seen him in that state had been as Neal had been going against Wilkes. He knew better than to believe everything a professional conman told him, but his gut told him that the worry about Neal was genuine.

“You thought he might be dead?”

For a moment the sound of the falling rain and the squeaking wipers became prominent in the car.

“The painting is the only proof of life I’ve gotten in the last month. Please, may I see it?”

How could Peter deny him? Yes, he knew he might be being conned. But there could be a life at stake. The life of someone who might still be his friend. Until now, Peter had always envisioned finding Neal in some fancy hotel, and in his sweetest dreams the conman had sometimes been totally surprised, sometimes utterly exhausted after a long hunt. Now he pictured a dead body, and how he would feel knowing that he had done nothing to prevent Neal’s death.

* * *

Havisham was adamant about not going to the Bureau. And Peter was apprehensive about allowing him in his home, even after the cold thing in his neck turned out to be the handle of an orange umbrella. So he drove aimlessly in the typical New York stop and go fashion through the streets, while Havisham pored over the file Peter had handed over. He was studying the photos of the painting as if he was seeing a miracle. Then he found Peter's transcript of the letter, the French original text side by side with the English translation.

“Tu sais, elle aime les classiques,” he murmured, reading the text of the letter. “This isn’t even a copy.”

“The letter may be real. You don’t put such a document on a copier.” And the photo was useless to him since he didn't speak French, so he left it in the office.

“I’ve got to see the original.”

“It’s in evidence.”

“Then you bring it to me. Tomorrow, nine o’clock, the usual place.”

Peter had activated the safety looks of his car as soon as he knew that there wasn't a weapon in his neck. By all rights, it should have been impossible to open the door. Nevertheless the sound of the street became suddenly louder and a cold wind blew in from behind. Peter spun around, but the backseat was empty. His eyes searched the street for the orange umbrella, without success, before he realized that he had been conned into looking for the garish object while the owner most likely had hidden the umbrella under his clothes and slipped away in the rain.

* * *

Peter didn’t tell El anything about the strange meeting. She most likely suspected that something was amiss, but as her light prompting didn’t yield any results, she didn’t push any further. Peter didn’t want to get her hopes up, at least not yet. He used the translation the Bureau had made of the letter to discover what had gotten Havisham so agitated. But the sentence “You know, she likes the classics” meant nothing to him.

Taking the letter out of the FBI was more than a little problematic given the chain of custody issues. Giving a piece of evidence and a potential historical document into the hands of a criminal could have easily get him fired. Peter considered taking Diana as backup with him, but following such an order could mean a lot of trouble for her. So he left a letter describing what had happened the night before in his desk, before he left under the pretense of needing coffee.

The park was nearly empty. Peter refrained from sitting down on the damp bench. The bulletproof vest under his clothes made sitting down normally difficult anyway.

“Show me!”

No voice scrambler? No newspaper? Not even a mockingbird? Havisham really wasn't acting like himself. This, more than anything else, prompted Peter to give up the plastic bag with the letter.

“This doesn't leave my sight.”

“I will handle it with care,” Havisham promised. Considering how carefully he was handling the bag with glove-clad hands, Peter relaxed slightly.

“I hope Lady-Suit knows to keep her distance.”

Looked like Diana had gotten the “message”; while he couldn't involve her officially, he had hoped that she would pick up on his unusual behavior. He looked around, but before he was able to spot her, Havisham suddenly opened the bag.

“What are you doing?” Peter tried to take the letter from him, but Havisham was skillfully showing him his backside. By the time Peter managed to take his shoulders and spin him back again, he was already folding the letter.

“If this is a historical document after all...”

“It isn't. See!”

The way the letter was now folded a new message had appeared, this time in English: “Help! Prisoner Keller protect El Neal.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just learned that Diahann Carroll died on the fourth of October. RIP. Her work will be remembered, including the warmth and eye-twinkle she infused June with.

* * *

“Agent Burke is taking a lot of time on his coffee run,” Blake remarked. Jones gave him a pitying look. Wherever Peter had gone, it was surely not the coffee shop. He had considered following him, but Diana had signaled him to stay back. Officially her order should mean nothing to him. The FBI was a very hierarchically-structured organization, but in the White Collar unit they had always played under different rules – Peter Burke's. He decided how much authority someone was supposed to get, no matter the official rank. Diana was a good example of this. Even as a probie, she had been basically Peter's right hand and treated as such. He himself had long been just one of "Burke's Ivy League boys” until the day he had told him about the strange man who had given Caffrey a cigarette. Afterwards, he had been the one to play babysitter for Caffrey, a job he first despised, but later on cherished. After all, it showed how much trust Burke had in his competence, and looking after the slippery con man was always a challenge and nearly never boring. The job even earned him first name rights with Peter.

Neal Caffrey had been another example of “Burke's rule”, as the agents called it. Consultants were normally seen as some kind of grudgingly-accepted necessity if they did a good job (otherwise they were just a nuisance). CIs, especially ones who were still serving time, were normally considered as equal to something one scraped from the bottom of their sole. Caffrey’s charming manner and his undeniable intelligence had done a lot to better his standing, but it had been Peter's habit of considering his opinion over everyone else (sometimes even Diana's) which had earned him the respect of his co-workers. Other units may grumble about the “pet convict”; in the White Collar unit, everybody knew that messing with Caffrey meant getting assigned to mortgage fraud cases for months.

Jones’ ringing cell phone interrupted his musings. The caller ID showed his boss's number. Nevertheless he answered in his usual manner.

“Jones?”

“Burke here. Send a protection detail to my wife, immediately. Tell them to be discreet.”

“Yes, sir!” This was the kind of order one followed without asking questions. But as soon as he had taken all the necessary steps, Jones wondered what had happened to bring Peter to such a state of ... well, not exactly panic, but something as close to it as was possible for such a controlled man.

* * *

Peter knew that he had to involve Hughes in his next steps. So he phoned from the car and requested an urgent meeting with him, as soon as he had spoken with Jones. Half an hour later, he was sitting in Hughes’ office aware of all the eyes from agents pretending not to watch what was happening behind the glass wall. Hughes examined the letter with a doubtful expression on his face.

“You know that this might be one of Caffrey's games.”

“This isn't his style. We wondered why he just vanished after slipping his anklet. This is the answer. And it's the only answer which makes sense.”

“Or the answer you wish to be true.”

“Can we ignore this message, going on like before, knowing that there might be a life at stake?”

Hughes didn’t answer immediately, but finally he gave a tiny nod.

“I’ll give this case to Rice.”

“What… but sir...”

“That’s not negotiable. This is a missing person’s case...”

“Connected to fraud and forgery!”

“…and you are too close to the victim. I will allow you to participate in the investigation, but she will call the shots.”

“The last time she nearly got Neal killed!”

“And she learned from that experience. She’s good, Peter. And she knows Caffrey.”

“She better remember that she owes him, too.”

* * *

Kimberly Rice knew that Burke wouldn't be happy about her involvement in the case. FBI Agents were territorial by definition, but she was in for an especially hard time. Since she had used Neal Caffrey as bait, she had a very high place on Burke's shit list. But she was determined to not screw this one up.

She knew her best shot was to involve Burke as much as possible. So her first step was to choose Jones and Barrigan for the team, and to bring only one agent herself. Agent Cassidy had done a stint in the White Collar unit before deciding to stay with Missing Persons. More important, she had a degree in psychology and the ability to blend in. Kimberly's second step was to discourage Burke from leading the investigation behind her back.

“Agent Barrigan, I’m sure you have already done the basic investigation on Keller. Care to share?”

Barrigan exchanged a look with Burke, but she answered the question to Kimberly's satisfaction.

“Looks like the headquarters in Washington got played by Keller. After they took over, Keller gave up some minor information, but suddenly he clammed up. Since they had nothing on him, at least nothing they hadn't promised him immunity for, they had to let him go.”

“And they didn't bother to inform us about it,” grumbled Burke from his corner, visibly angry. Barrigan continued her report.

“The Washington Bureau reminded him of his problems with Sergei, but Keller just laughed. Then he vanished without a trace. I spoke with the agent who was handling the case at the end. He said that he is waiting for his body to turn up somewhere sooner or later.”

Burke opened his mouth, but Kimberly beat him to the punch.

“Thank you, Agent Barrigan. So this is what we’ll do. First of all, we’re involving Organized Crime. Their experts on the Russian Mob can do some digging. In the meantime, we’re taking a fresh look on our evidence. I'm sure you have already activated all of your contacts about Keller. If anyone digs up something, I expect them to share it immediately.”

Kimberly hoped that Burke understood what she was offering. She would allow them basically to do whatever they pleased as long as she stayed informed. And for the first week, it mostly worked out like she’d planned. As soon as Burke realized that she really put the search for Caffrey on the top of her priority list instead of jumping on the next high-profile case, he became less hostile. The only glitch was the agent Organized Crime sent them.

Kusmin knew a lot about the Russian mob (having gone undercover himself countless times in his early career) and came through with a lot of helpful information and interesting insights. But like most members of Organized Crime he had adopted Ruiz’s stance concerning Neal Caffrey, and didn’t make a secret of the fact. Half the time Burke looked like he would love to strangle the arrogant bastard. Kimberly tried to distract him by letting him take the lead in their meetings more often than not.

“So, let's assemble a new time-line,” he said under her watchful eyes. “For months, the Russian mob is out to get Keller. Keller plays nice with the FBI in exchange for protection, but suddenly decides he’s better off on his own. He offers something to the Russians, something interesting enough to spare his life for an additional month but they break his hand. This means he can't work as a forger anymore. So he decides to acquire one of the best and kidnaps Neal. Shortly after Neal vanishes, the hit on Keller is called off, which tells me that Keller used Neal for some scheme to buy himself free. Next the guests at one of El's events are poisoned.”

“Why do you think that this has something to do with the case?” she interrupted. Her gut told her that he was most likely right, but she had to make sure that Burke didn’t jump to unfounded conclusions. That was the main reason she had been assigned to this case, after all. Her success in Missing Persons was largely based on her ability to distance herself from her feelings. She would use empathy if necessary, but a clinical approach was always the best way to yield results.

“Because the NYPD has uncovered no other suspect for the poisoning until now. Because Neal's message warns about El being in danger. And because it fits the time-line. Let's pretend that Neal helped Keller evade the Russians. He wouldn't have had much choice, in order to avoid getting caught up in Keller's mess. But afterwards he is reluctant to forge anything else for him. Keller needs something to force him to make the forgeries for his next con. The poisoning made the newspapers...this would be enough to convince Neal to go along with another scheme.”

“How do you know that Caffrey didn't go with his old pal willingly?”

Burke glared at Kusmin. “For starters, Keller isn't an old pal of his, he’s a rival. Neal once called him a “blue collar version of himself”. They have ... or at least, used to have ... similar abilities, but their style is totally different. Keller has no qualms about killing to reach his goals, something Neal would never condone. Neal managed to pull one over him twice. Believe me, there is no love lost between those two.”

“There hasn't been one trace of Caffrey in months,” Kimberly interrupted, before this could get out of hand. “Only the letter and the painting, and both are designed to get our attention. Until proven otherwise, we are treating this case as a kidnapping.” She would naturally keep the other possibility in mind.

“He was using one of his aliases.” Kusmin never knew when to stop.

“Read the file.” Even the normally laid-back Agent Jones was visibly annoyed. “The servant girl confirmed that the man posing as “George Donelly” looked like Keller. She even mentioned the broken hand before we knew about it.”

“If we are sure that this is Keller, why don't we flush him out? Giving the Russians a tip that whatever Keller brought them is most likely a fake would do the trick.”

“Are you crazy?” Burke exploded. “Aren't you supposed to be an expert on the Russian Mob? If they even get a hint that Keller may have duped them, they won’t stop at killing him, they will also kill the forger who helped him, never mind if he did it voluntarily or not.”

If he was even still alive. Kimberly knew the statistics. Caffrey's chance of survival had been near zero before they'd even realized that he had been kidnapped. Their only hope was that Keller was planning other schemes using Neal's talents.

It was time to seize control over this meeting again. She stood up. “There will be no involvement of the Russians. Spooking a kidnapper is never the right way to recover a hostage alive.” A look from her and Burke sat down. He hadn’t challenged her authority so far, but she knew it was only a matter of time. She had to convince him that her expertise would be helpful. “This is not a usual kidnapping. There won’t be a ransom demand, or some kind of human trafficking we may be able to follow. Keller has tucked Caffrey away somewhere, and he surely will not give up the location readily. We have to find Keller, and we have to watch him. Let’s hope that he will lead us to Caffrey.”


	9. Chapter 9

“I‘ve told you everything I know, Suit. I thought you were the experts in finding people. Shouldn't you be able to locate Keller with your satellites?”

“Why are you thieves obsessed with satellites? It's not like Keller would go on top of a roof and write “Here I am!” in ten foot letters.” This was already the fifth meeting Peter had had with Mozzie in the park, but unlike the first two, the last ones had been pretty useless. He would have skipped this one, but he didn’t want to have to send his car to the garage again to repair the safety looks. “Keller knows how to avoid us. You‘ve a better shot with all your contacts.”

“I told you, nobody knows what Keller is up to. I heard a rumor that he might have asked around for buyers with special interests. But nothing about a brokered sale. There‘s nothing else I can tell you.”

That may be true, but Peter didn’t intend to waste his time again. He could be in his office doing something worthwhile. If he was stuck with Mozzie in the park, the little guy had better give him something helpful.

“You could tell me what the meaning of ‘You know she likes the classics.’ is and why this helped you to find the hidden message.”

Mozzie sighed.

“Kate used to leave messages like that for Neal after she vanished. We always said that she liked the classics whenever we found a new one.”

Peter was watching him intently. “What kind of messages?”

“She had quite a liking for the folded paper code. Once she used Morse code. And there was the map she drew with lemon juice. Can you imagine that she used ‘X marks the spot’ twice?”

“Lemon juice? That's really an obvious code.”

“Yeah, I know, every Boy Scout would be able to discover that one, right?” Mozzie sounded somewhat disgruntled. “Either way, he didn't use it on the letter. It had a wax seal on it. The process of pressing it on the paper would have produced enough heat to make lemon juice visible.”

“But perhaps on the painting. No, don't tell me. Even if Neal had been able to obtain lemon juice, the aging process would've made the message visible.”

“Exactly!” Mozzie paused. “Although this is Neal. I wouldn't put it past him to somehow manage to get to the painting after the aging was done.”

They both gave a short snort as they shared a moment of fond memory of Neal's resourcefulness. Then Peter realized what Mozzie had said. “Is it possible...”

“No...it wouldn't do good to get our hopes too high... but since it's Neal...”

“...it wouldn't hurt to look. I have to go back to the office.”

* * *

Kusmin declared Peter crazy as he stated his intention to heat the painting and look for a message written on it. But he ceased griping about it as the heat revealed something on the back of the canvas. The writing was sloppy, but it was definitely Neal's artistic penmanship. The lines of the last words got thinner, as if the writer didn't have enough “ink” anymore.

“K plans fake Frick heist Louise de Broglie Loft near Giselle no skill”

For a moment everyone stared disbelievingly at the message. Then Kusmin broke out with: “This is nonsense! Why didn't he write where he’s being held captive?”

“Keller is a professional criminal,” said Rice. “He’ll give Caffrey as little information as possible. He surely doesn’t know where he is. At least we now have some hints. We have to watch the Frick.”

Peter had read the message carefully and drawn his own conclusion. The second part of the message made no sense to him at all. Well, the loft did. To produce high-quality forgeries, Neal would need an atelier. But “near Giselle no skill” - Peter had no idea what this meant. Well, he knew that Giselle was the name of a ballet. But if Neal was close to a theater, he could have simply written that down. Perhaps Giselle was a person? And who had no skill?

The first part of the message was easier to understand. Louise de Broglie? Peter had a vague idea and typed it into his laptop. Yes, this was the title of a painting currently in the Frick Collection. This made sense, the only reason Neal should know about the heist would be if he had to forge a painting for it. Did Keller plan to exchange the painting in the Frick with a fake one? No...Neal didn't write about a fake painting but about a fake heist. A fake heist – that sounded like Keller would only pretend to break into the museum. But why? The only reason Peter could imagine was trying to convince someone that something had been stolen for real – something along the lines of insurance fraud or...

“Cocky, Keller, too cocky,” Peter murmured.

“Care to share?” Rice said, visibly annoyed.

“He’s trying to pull basically the same con a third time. He plans to sell a forgery to a collector. And to give the fake painting more credibility, he’ll stage some kind of security breach at the Frick Collection.”

“Good!” Rice said a little patronizingly. “We can work with that. Like I said, we'll keep an eye on the Frick Collection. Even for a fake heist Keller will have to turn up.”

“We could also try figuring out the name of the collector.” Jones looked at Peter expectantly.

“I’ll ask my contacts,” promised Peter, meaning Mozzie. Jones and Diana exchanged a knowing look.

“We could also create another collector who is interested in something special from the Frick Collection. Keller surely won't resist the chance to con two people at once,” suggested Diana.

“No, it would be too much of a coincidence; Keller won't go for it. But the idea has merit; we just have to choose something from a different collection. And I know the perfect painting for it.”


	10. Chapter 10

Dedication and patience were the recipe for a successful escape. Neal had both of them. Peter had been wrong when he remarked that Neal only needed one and a half month to break out of the supermax. He had needed one month to orchestrate the plan, but he had worked on it much longer. From the very first day he had been in prison, he had been on the lookout for possible escape routes. He didn’t intend to use them. Four years had been a small price to pay to get the FBI off his back, a small price to make sure that they would stop digging around, a small price to protect Kate. But the knowledge that he could leave if he really wanted to had made his time much easier.

In this regard the tracking anklet had been more of a prison for him than the supermax. The two mile radius of New York felt smaller than his prison cell simply because the anklet was fail-safe. If Peter hadn’t decided to send him undercover without his anklet from time to time, thus giving him opportunities to flee, he would have gone stir crazy at some point.

This was even worse. He had planned in the beginning, but each time he had to capitulate because of the collar around his neck. Soon all his planning concentrated on the damn thing. He began to pull at the chain occasionally, in the desperate hope that somewhere in the wall something would break, setting him free. Now he repeated this useless motion again and again every night in a bizarre ritual until he fell asleep.

Every day became a challenge for Neal. He was restless at the night and tired during the day. Breathing the stale air in the loft left him with the constant feeling of suffocating. Eating became a chore, a necessity to survive. The only times he felt some sort of reprieve was whenever he managed to hide a message in his work. It was only a small glimmer of hope, a clutching at straws, but it helped him through the day.

He desperately told himself that he had been lucky so far. Keller serving the gourmet menu had been a stupid mistake on Keller’s part in more than one regard, but a very fortunate mistake from Neal’s point of view. He had used the lemon very sparingly on his sole, knowing about its usefulness. Keller had left the painting with him during the night (perhaps because he knew how much the image of Kate tormented Neal), and Neal had used the opportunity to leave a message. It hadn’t been easy to write in the darkness on a standing canvas. Neal wasn’t sure if the lemon juice had been enough for the last words. Not that “no skyline” was a really helpful clue, but since there wasn’t a helpful landmark visible through the window, this was all he could give Peter. If Peter even got the message.

Keller became Neal’s one link to the outside world. Sometimes he was very forthcoming with information. Like the day he used the cane on Neal again, because he heard about Carrington’s death. Or the day he brought him a bottle of expensive wine to celebrate that the FBI was searching for proof that Neal was behind the Carrington scam.

That hurt. After the pink diamond case, where Peter had been proved wrong after suspecting Neal initially, Neal had thought that Peter would look harder the next time something like this happened. When Peter didn’t even consider that he might be involved in the Thayer theft although it was his MO, he felt vindicated. Well, he knew that Peter still checked his anklet regularly, but somehow he wasn’t just the con man anymore. Neal hoped that he would be able to explain one day. Someone just had to discover his messages.

The evening Neal finished the Ingres, Keller brought a small package and put it on the kitchen counter. That wasn’t good. Neal didn’t give him the satisfaction of asking about it, but his eyes strayed to it while Keller was inspecting his work. Whatever had put Keller in high spirits, it surely wasn’t something for Neal to be happy about. Neal very much preferred seeing the cane. Keller was always careful not to damage him too much, after all, and everything which put him in a bad mood was good news for Neal.

“It’s a present for you,” Keller said. “A box of _con_fections; I thought it fitting.”

“Aren’t you a witty one?”

“I surely am. And you are the talented one.” He went to the counter. “Here!” He threw the package in Neal’s direction and he caught it by reflex. “Good work deserves a reward.”

Neal noticed the yellow wrapping paper with some interest, but faked indifference and kept his attention on his adversary. Keller sat down at the chessboard. So it would be one of those evenings when Keller spent a lot of time staring at their chess game, babbling about his own greatness. This day, Neal didn’t mind. He needed to know if he had outlived his usefulness already.

“You’ve moved the bishop,” Keller remarked.

“Obviously.” Hopefully Keller would now protect his rook, unaware of the chance he would give Neal this way.

“Interesting choice.” Keller proceeded to stare at the board. Neal stayed quiet. He knew Keller was waiting for him to ask, and he didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. The silent battle of wills persisted and Neal grew increasingly fidgety. His self-control prevented him from blurting out the one important question, but he searched for things to occupy him. His eyes fell on the package. He began to unwrap it. Taking his time, he didn’t even rip the paper and finally lifted the small box from the wrapper.

“I bought it at the gift shop of the Met.”

“Nice. Did you enjoy the exhibition?”

“Oh, yes. Mainly one particular piece. You will like working on it. It’s an especially nice Matisse.”

“Which you don’t intend on stealing, but is of great interest to one of your clients?”

“Well, it is of great interest to one of my clients, but I think this time I will steal it for real. Second floor, close to the fire exit – this is too juicy to pass up.”

Luckily, Neal was a pro. Otherwise he would have never managed to keep his voice calm.

“You need two forgeries?”

“One will be sufficient.”

Again, they were quiet. Neal began to fiddle with the paper, folding a butterfly out of it. Finally Keller moved his rook out of the way of the bishop and stood.

“I’ll bring you what you need tomorrow. Enjoy your dessert.”

He left. Neal surveyed the board and allowed himself a small triumphant smile. Keller hadn’t realized it, but he would be checkmated in seven moves.

* * *

Despite Keller’s words he didn’t turn up the next day. Neither did Neal’s chain lengthen at the usual time. This was very uncomfortable, since he couldn’t reach the kitchenette or the bathroom this way. Around midday, he began to worry. Beside his bed were two bottles, one still filled with water; he had emptied the other one during the morning. He still had the pralines Keller had gifted him with. For the moment, he was set, but the longer Keller stayed away and his chain stayed taut, the more desperate his situation would become.

Three days later, Neal drank the last drop of his carefully-rationed water and ate the last praline.


	11. Chapter 11

Contrary to what some TV shows suggested, police officers did not dislike Feds out of principle. Neither did the standard police officer fall over himself just because someone flashed a shinier badge and was required to wear a suit to work. Captain Shattuck liked to compare the relationship between different agencies to a soccer team. They all had the same goal, and while they all wanted to be the one to score a point, sometimes it was better to give the ball to someone else. At least, the most successful of them played the game this way.

The sore point between the NYPD and the other agencies was the lack of communication. He understood that it wasn’t advisable to share everything, but the secrecy often resulted in a game where the players of one team hindered each other. To prevent some of the greater snafus it was advisable to have some sort of contact in all instances of law enforcement.

He had found someone with similar sentiments in Peter Burke. Over the years they established a good rapport with each other. Sometimes they met each other for a beer. When they spoke with each other during work, normally at least one of them was agitated because he was trying to rescue his operation. It was important to meet later on in a calm atmosphere to soothe some ruffled feathers.

Peter Burke upset was an expected scenario. But this time, he was furious. For half an hour he screamed at the unfortunate detectives who had managed to nail a wealthy businessman after he caused an accident driving drunk and left his victim bleeding on the street. It was an open and shut case. The accident had been filmed by a security camera, the plates had been visible and the suspect confessed almost immediately. It got a little bit more interesting when they found two stolen paintings in a hidden room in his house.

Confronted with the video and the two paintings, he immediately lawyered up. In the end he had offered the name of the thief who “organized” the first two paintings for him and told them about a meeting with a thief who wanted to offer him a third one. More likely he had contacted the thief himself, but who cared about semantics.

The thief turned out to be crafty; he nearly managed to slip away, but they managed to catch him. In high spirits they went back to the police station, but before they even finished congratulating each other for this high-profile arrest, a couple of FBI agents stormed in and showed their displeasure. Apparently they had had this thief under surveillance, hoping that he would lead them to a kidnapping victim of all things.

Shattuck sighed. It was time to rescue his detectives. They had just done their job and they had done it well based on the intel available. And now some irritated and unrelenting FBI agent told them that they may have killed a man because they did everything by the book. Burke had better buy him an extra large tankard the next time they met each other.

* * *

After the NYPD botched up their operation, Peter acted immediately and made sure that Keller was handed over to them. Now he had him in one of the more uncomfortable (and secure) interrogation rooms near the holding cells. Keller presented himself as very confident. Calmly he looked in his eyes as Peter towered over him in an intimidating pose.

“Agent Burke, we both know that I don’t have to answer your questions. I did nothing wrong. It’s not against the law to copy a painting; passing it off as genuine makes it a forgery. My client wanted a copy of the painting, and I provided him with one. That’s not illegal.”

“Well, your client tells a different story. He admitted that he hired you to steal the painting for him.”

Keller grinned self-confidently. “If he had hired me to steal the painting, why would I bring him a copy?”

“It’s easier to sell a copy than to steal the real painting, isn’t it?”

“Interesting theory. But the sad truth is that my client needed something to barter with the police and decided to get himself a lighter sentence by spinning a story about me. Unbelievable how ruthless some people are; accusing an innocent of a crime to avoid prison. That’s low.”

Peter really wanted to slap the expression of faked suffering off Keller’s face. But he knew he wouldn’t get the information he needed with violence. “You expect me to believe that you used the right materials for a forgery, aged the painting properly, to sell it as a cheap copy?”

“A high-quality copy.”

“And naturally it is only a coincidence that you were at the Frick this morning, the same time a security break was registered,” scoffed Peter. Unfortunately he had no proof that Keller had triggered the alarm. The surveillance team had only spotted him when he left the museum.

“I don’t care what you believe. I care what the jury will believe. Do you think that they’ll take the word of a corrupt businessman over the word of someone innocent?”

The sad truth was that Keller was right. On paper, he had never committed a crime. Since he only possessed a copy and not the real painting it would be difficult to convince a jury of his guilt. Not impossible, but Keller was obviously prepared to take the risk. Peter changed his tactic.

“And who made the copy? You couldn’t have done it with this hand.”

Keller flexed his right fingers. They moved very slowly. “I asked a friend to do it.”

“Which friend?”

“One who owed me something.”

“Let’s be honest with each other.” Peter sat down in front of Keller. “I know who the forger is. It’s the same one who did a very convincing painting of Helen of Troy in Da Vinci’s style; the same one who left hidden messages in a forged letter and the painting, asking for help.”

There was a small flicker of worry in Keller’s eyes, before he laughed: “Sounds like someone tried to cover his ass just in case the forgery got discovered. Either way, I’ve heard enough of this nonsense. I think it’s time to contact my lawyer.”

Frustrated, Peter moved to leave the room.

“Oh, and Agent Burke? I hope the proceedings won’t take too long. You know, I recently acquired a very _delicate _plant. It needs a lot of personal care. I would hate it if it dried out while I am here.”

Peter slammed the door behind him.


	12. Chapter 12

* * *

The FBI was still mostly deserted when Peter came into the office that morning. He would have preferred staying overnight, but Diana had forcefully reminded him that there wasn’t much he could do at the moment. Until Keller had spoken with his lawyer, the lab had the results from the painting Keller tried to sell, and the evidence was properly processed, there wasn’t much he could do. So he had set a couple of junior agents on the (hopeless) task of trying to backtrack Keller’s movements before he arrived at the Frick via traffic cams, and allowed himself a short, restless night at home.

The morning proved to be frustrating. Neither the work of the junior agents nor the lab yielded any useful results. Peter had hoped that they might find Neal’s fingerprints or anything else which would prove him to be the forger of the painting, but nothing. The day went from bad to worse when Rice stormed into the Bureau and gathered the task force for their meeting.

“The DA thinks that we don’t have enough on Keller to prosecute him. So either we find additional evidence or we will have to let him loose today.”

The agents were visibly dismayed. Only Rice’s young assistant looked thoughtful. “Perhaps this isn’t a bad thing,” she said hopefully. “We could revert to our original plan to follow Keller.”

“What’s your take on this, Agent Burke?” Rice asked. “You know Keller. Do you think he would go to Caffrey, now that he knows that we are on him?”

“Definitely not! When we lose Keller, we lose Neal, too. We have to find something which links Keller to Neal to put pressure on him to reveal his location. That’s our only chance.”

“Jones, Barrigan, you two go down to the precinct. Speak with every police officer who had contact with Keller yesterday. Meanwhile, we’re putting Keller back into the interrogation room. His lawyer is a real slimebag, but he is good. So be prepared for a challenge.”

* * *

Jones knew that they wouldn’t be very welcome at the NYPD at the moment. Peter’s display of temper the day before had (understandably) chafed more than one in the wrong way. Everyone they questioned showed open annoyance that they had to retell the whole arrest to them. Normally they only got this kind of questioning in court or during an IA interrogation.

“Well, what do you think happened?” the officer who had been processing Keller said petulantly. “I ordered him to empty his pockets, he did, he was frisked to make sure that he didn’t hold anything back, I put everything into the property bag and filled out the forms. Nothing special.”

Jones studied the list of the items found in Keller’s posession.

“There was nothing in his wallet besides money and his ID?”

The officer nodded. Jones studied the list again. They had already removed the keys and placed them into evidence, just in case one of them was for the place Neal was being held in. Everything else listed sounded unimportant.

“There wasn’t anything written on the ‘piece of yellow folded paper’, was there?”

“No. I mean, it wasn’t a note or something like that. Just a paper he had folded into a butterfly before shoving in into his jacket. It looked a little bit worse for wear. He actually looked surprised to find it in his pocket at all.”

Jones stared at him openmouthed. “And you didn’t feel the need to mention this little tidbit in your documentation, did you? This paper goes into evidence. I want it dusted for prints, immediately. Go!” Jones watched as the officer scrambled to obey. He had never before used this kind of authority. It felt good.

* * *

Peter smiled triumphantly as he went back into the interrogation room, a small carton under his arm. Rice was entangled in a glaring match with Keller’s lawyer. When she saw him, she leaned back, signaling him that he was allowed to take over. He sat down in front of Keller, reached into the carton and pushed the evidence bag with the paper butterfly across the table. Keller stayed motionless, but his lawyer scoffed: “What’s this?”

“This is the reason the DA decided to charge your client after all. On this piece of paper are the fingerprints of Neal Caffrey, a known forger. You’re still trying to tell me that you were just hired for a copy?”

Keller shared a look with his lawyer and nodded slightly. The lawyer coughed.

“My client is ready to admit that he had contact with the fugitive Neal Caffrey. But he maintains that he sold the painting he did for him as a copy.”

Peter grinned menacingly. “You won’t be able to wriggle out of it this time around.” He pulled evidence out of his carton and put it forcefully on the table.

Slap!

“This is a forged letter, containing a coded message from Caffrey in which he implicates you and asks for help.”

Bang!

“This is a journal, written by Carrington, describing how he was conned into paying large amounts of money for a forged Da Vinci.”

Slap!

“This is the statement of a witness who identified you as the man Carrington is talking about in his journal.”

Slap!

“And this is the statement of the man who hired you to steal a painting for him.”

Peter pointed at the butterfly.

“It’s too late to buy favors by admitting your contact with Caffrey. We already have proof for it. But you could help yourself if you tell us where he is.” Peter leaned over the table. “If he dies, his body will get discovered sooner or later. And then I will get you for murder.”

“Agent Burke, this is …” The lawyer interrupted himself as Keller raised his hand. Nervously he was eyeing his client.

Keller smiled arrogantly. “You are right. I should tell you where he is. And I will.”

Relieved Peter eased his stance.

“You don’t charge me, allow me to leave the country and in exchange I’ll reveal to you his current hiding place. A small-time fence like me in exchange for one of the greatest con men at large – it’s a fair exchange, right?”

“You son of a bitch!” Rice reacted fast and held Peter back as he lost it. Jones stormed into the room and together they wrestled Peter out.

“Burke! Burke, stop this nonsense immediately!”

Peter forced himself to relax. Breathing fast, he leaned against the wall, cursing himself for losing control, and especially cursing Keller for being such an arrogant, unscrupulous bastard.

* * *

It was a subdued team which gathered in the office. Rice had ordered Peter to stay away from Keller, and was now conducting the interrogation with Kusmin and her assistant at her side. Diana had never before seen her boss this subdued. She pressed a cup of coffee (a good one) into his hand.

“He won’t talk,” Peter sighed. “I’ve seen it in his eyes. He just went all in, and he is not ready to back off.” He was staring with empty eyes at the evidence wall and especially at Neal’s picture on it. Originally Neal’s mug shot had been pinned in that place, but after they uncovered the kidnapping, Peter had replaced it with a candid shot June had taken at one point. The Neal in this picture was laughing at the lens; his well-groomed hair slightly ruffled by the wind. It broke Diana’s heart to imagine that he was trapped somewhere, perhaps dying from thirst at this very moment.

“We still haven’t uncovered the whole meaning of his last message: ‘Near Giselle no skill’.” She scrutinized the writing critically. “If this even says ‘skill’. The writing is a little bit sloppy there. It could say ‘scull’ or...” She broke off with a wince when she realized what she had said. It was not a good idea to talk about sculls just now.

Peter straightened. “You’re right. Perhaps we can uncover the right Giselle.”


	13. Chapter 13

It was the third day since Keller got arrested. The whole team was tired. None of them had slept much; with the exception of Kusmin they all didn’t even go home, but took turns crashing on the couch.

Even a simple search in the white pages turned up 1133 Giselles in New York City, and none of them seemed to have a connection to either Neal or Keller. The agents also knew every detail about the ballet, even every place it was performed in NY during the last month. But they weren’t any closer to the solution.

Rice’s update about the interrogation wasn’t encouraging either. “Keller is constantly hinting that we should come to a decision soon. I get the impression that he fears that Caffrey is already dead. Either way, our time is running out.”

“If we take him up on his offer…” Jones said desperately.

“No, absolutely not!”

Peter narrowed his eyes. “Why not? It may be ‘our one shot’. Or isn’t Neal worth it?”

“You said yourself that Keller wouldn’t go back to Caffrey. What makes you think that he would be good to his word?”

Peter sighed. Condemning Rice might be a convenient way to vent some anger, but the truth was that she had acted very professional and dedicated during the investigation. And she was right. Keller would vanish, and they wouldn’t be any closer to Neal in the end.

* * *

It was midday. Peter was sitting at his desk, copying the word _Giselle_ on a piece of paper, in a feeble imitation of Neal. He had noticed a long time ago that Neal tended to draw something related to a case if he was searching for idea. But as much as Peter tried to think like Neal, he wasn’t able to understand what he meant.

Thoughtfully he gazed in the general direction of Diana and Jones, working on their computers, when something surprising caught his attention. There was El, storming through the main office, a desperate Blake on her heels. Why was she here? Her expression spelled anger and some serious groveling on his part in the near future. Hastily he signaled Blake to stay back as she entered his office.

“I want to know what’s going on,” El said in her ‘don’t try to stall me’ tone.

“Going on?” He should know better.

“You’re barely at home anymore. Last night you even slept in the office. And you’ve put a protection detail on me!”

Peter glared at Blake through the glass. He had ordered his people to be discreet.

“It’s just a security measure.”

“What for?” Her eyes wandered to the evidence wall. “What has Neal done now?”

“Nothing,” Peter really didn’t want to tell her the whole truth. Not yet. But she was too perceptive to be satisfied with one of his half-baked evasions. “Neal sent me a message, warning me that you may be in danger,” he admitted, drawing her attention away from the wall.

“And now you’re trying to catch the one responsible?” she asked.

“No…no, actually, I already caught him. I just have to make sure that he won’t get away with it. I may be tied up here a little longer.”

Her stance relaxed a little. “The poisoning at the event …”

“… may be related to it. I’m sorry, I should have told you sooner, but …”

“You didn’t want to worry me, especially if Neal just pulled one of his cons.” She sighed. Then she walked around his desk and embraced him. “Somehow this thing was easier when Neal was working for you. You know, I still think that this whole flight thing has something to do with Kate.”

Peter suppressed a wince. El’s words reminded him how badly he failed Neal after his initial disappearance. But although he tried to hide his reaction, she must have felt something.

“That Neal sent you a warning shows that he still cares, doesn’t it?”

Peter smiled bitterly. “Yes, it does.” He dissolved their embrace.

“Don’t be angry with me, but …”

“… I shouldn’t expect you for dinner, right?” She smiled. “I see you’re already planning to eat in your office. But you should choose another delivery service. This one doesn’t suit you either way.”

“What?”

“_Giselle_,” she pointed at the paper laying on his desk. “They don’t deliver in this district.”

Peter stared at her. “Are you saying that there’s a delivery service with this name here in New York?”

They had checked for businesses with this name, but they only found a couple of lawyers, two clothing stores and a catering service. None of them had looked promising.

“Well, yes,” she said, confused. “But shouldn’t you know this? You wrote down the name with the G from their logo.” She pointed at the swerve the inner line of the G made.

“I just came across the word; I didn’t know what it meant. El, this is very important; what do you know about this delivery service?”

El, bless her, refrained from further questions and provided the facts professionally. “It’s some sort of High Society service in Manhattan. They cater a lot of expensive parties. They also deliver gourmet meals, but only within a small radius. They say that they can’t guarantee the quality of the meal otherwise. Personally I think that it’s mostly a form of advertising, but it works.”

“Where is their radius?” Peter asked excitedly, and showed El a map of Manhattan. She studied it and drew a line around some blocks of buildings.

“They’re located here and they mostly cater in this area. In the neighborhood are a lot of apartments for the wealthy. You know, with a doorman in livery, a pool and whatever else a well-earning New Yorker might wish for. It’s become some sort of status symbol to live in the area where they deliver food. Brokers actually advertise their apartments with that fact, thus advertising _Giselle_, too. Quite clever, when you think about it. Although I think that they make a bunch of their income from their catering, not with the delivery service.”

“That’s it! That has to be it!” Peter kissed his wife enthusiastically, not heeding the fact that the whole office could watch them. “I love you. But now …”

“… I have to go. I expect an explanation as soon as you have time again.”

El was barely in the elevator hall before Peter had gathered his team. He explained what he had learned to them.

“Neal is most likely somewhere in this area,” he concluded. “He has to be in one of the higher-up apartments. Those with a lot of natural light.”

Rice nodded. “I’ll speak with Hughes. This is still a big area; we will need every agent available. We’ll also alert the NYPD, telling them to show Keller’s picture around.”

Half an hour later, the 21th floor of the FBI building was nearly deserted.

* * *

Peter was desperately gazing at the skyscrapers in front of him. What looked like a fairly small area on the map was quite intimidating in reality. While Rice was coordinating the search, he tried to approach the subject logically. So, where would Keller most likely hide?

“No skyline!” Diana suddenly shouted beside him.

“What?” Peter asked.

“Perhaps he tried to write “no skyline”. Let’s imagine he’s in one of these apartments. He somehow gathered that he is in Manhattan, close to this delivery service. If I had written such a message, I would write something to narrow down the location next. He has big windows, but he writes that something is NOT visible for him. Perhaps there isn’t any distinctive landmark visible to him. Or nothing at all.”

“No skyline … inform everyone that they pay special attention to the highest buildings in this area, and to the top floors.” Glimpsing an especially high building at the corner he decided, “I’ll check out this one personally.”

* * *

It would have been too easy if he had been successful in the first building. But in the sixth one the doorman said: “This could be Mr. Devore.”

“Devore? George Devore?”

“Yeah…how do you know?”

“Which one is his apartment?”

“I’m not authorized …”

“There may be a captive man dying of thirst in it at this very moment. Tell me the number!”

The doorman hesitated.

“Please!” Peter pulled out a picture of Neal. “He’s my friend. I can’t lose him.”

The doorman looked at his list. “Mr. Devore owns one of the biggest apartments, with servants quarters attached to it.” Obviously he thought that the wealth of the owner ruled out the possibility that he had done something criminal; at least not something as common as a kidnapping.

“George Devore alias Mathew Keller is already in the custody of the FBI.”

The doorman looked surprised.

“The number?” Peter urged, ready to snatch away the list if necessary.

“431”

* * *

The evening sun shed its reddish rays into the servant quarters of the lavish apartment. On a small cot near the back wall lay a motionless man. Diana called in an ambulance. Slowly Peter approached, taking in the soiled clothes with the ridiculous cartoon print on it. His trembling hand moved to feel for a pulse, but was hindered by a white metal collar surrounding the throat. He yelled for a bolt cutter and was searching for a different pulse point when one of Neal’s eyelids cracked open. “You came,” Neal croaked, a slight smile on his cracked lips. Then his body slackened again.


	14. Chapter 14

Peter gladly left the securing of the crime scene and wrap-up to Rice, and accompanied Neal to the hospital. Luckily, Peter himself was Neal’s medical proxy. The Bureau strongly suggested establishing a medical power of attorney to all its agents (and reckless consultants) in the field. Since Neal didn’t have anyone else, he had originally chosen June for this role. But since June had enough on her plate with her sick granddaughter, he eventually switched to Peter after the consultant deal had been reinstated, hinting that this might appease the Bureau somewhat, too. Peter liked to think that the decision was truly a proof of the growing trust between them. Whatever Neal’s real reasons were, being his proxy came in handy now.

Worried, Peter watched as the unconscious man was rolled into the trauma room, while he was whisked away by some nurse to fill out some paperwork. This proved to be a challenge. As a prisoner of the federal government, Neal was entitled to some basic care. As consultant to the FBI he had the privilege of going to the doctor of his choice instead of having to frequent the prison infirmary. The problem was that Neal’s status was unclear at the moment. When he had been listed as a fugitive, the consultant agreement had been voided. Now Peter had to make sure that Neal wouldn’t get transported to the Supermax at the first chance.

Neal was barely back, but he proved to be a hassle again. This thought made Peter smile and he proceeded to sort out this mess. It was a somewhat bitter smile, since he realized that he had basically freed Neal from Keller’s clutches just to make sure that his legal status reverted back to being a prisoner again.

When he finally went to the waiting room, he was welcomed with a warm hug.

“El?” he asked, confused. “What are you doing here?”

She punched him lightly in the chest. “Moz phoned me. You have a lot of explaining to do. Why didn’t you tell me that Neal had been kidnapped?”

“Moz?” Peter looked around but there was no trace of the little guy.

“He’s outside.” El pointed to the window.

“He’s sitting on a bench with binoculars and a directional microphone,” Jones explained. Only then Peter realized that June and Diana were there, too.

“How did he ...,” Peter trailed off. On second thought, he didn’t want to know. He wouldn’t be surprised if Moz had bugged him (and every other member of his team – and his home, including his dog), to make sure that he would learn about any progress in the search for Neal immediately. Speaking of news …

“Did they give you an update?”

“Not yet. And don’t try to distract me. I’m your wife and I’m Neal’s friend, too.”

“I didn’t want to worry you.” That was only half of the truth. Yes, towards the end he didn’t want her to know what a wretched death Neal was dying. In the worst case scenario he would have simply told her that Neal had been killed (which would have been bad enough). But originally, there had still been some doubt deep inside him about the veracity of Neal’s hidden messages, and he hadn’t wanted to deal with El’s disappointment should it be a con.

In retrospect it had been a mistake not to tell her, because they might have solved the Giselle clue much earlier. El looked like she intended to point out this damning fact when she thankfully got distracted by the arrival of the doctor.

“Agent Burke?”

“Yes?”

The doctor looked doubtfully at the unusually-diverse group in the waiting room, but proceeded nevertheless to explain in a low voice in a feeble attempt at discretion: “Mr. Caffrey is in hypovolemic shock and he is hypernatremic. We have him on a hypotonic IV for rehydration, but we must go slowly to avoid cerebral edema. We are also monitoring his heart rate.”

There was definitely too much “Hypo” in this speech for Peter’s taste. He went straight to the main point of interest.

“Will he survive?”

Hypodoc looked at him over the rims of his stylish glasses. “He is stable, he even regained conscious briefly. I have allowed the CSU to do their work.”

Peter felt relieved. If they allowed the police in it was a sure sign that Neal wasn’t in imminent danger.

“I have also sent for someone who might be able to remove the collar without doing any additional damage. An expert from the fire department should be here soon. ”

“When can I see him?”

“Visiting hours end now; they start again tomorrow.” At Peter’s sinister look he quickly changed tone, “but you are naturally allowed to take a quick look in half an hour.”

Hastily Hypodoc retreated. Peter turned to the others.

“He is going to be okay?” June asked. Her tone suggested that her sharp ears had overheard at least a part of the conversation.

“Looks like it. Did Mozzie phone you, too?”

“We had an agreement. He really appreciated it that I kept the loft ready for Neal’s return.”

Peter felt ashamed. Neal trusted him more than anyone else (as much as the con man was able to trust). But Mozzie and June had been the ones who had been sure that he hadn’t run. Even El, although believing him guilty, had still advocated for understanding. But Peter had been so angry about Neal’s supposed betrayal that he hadn’t even looked for other explanations. Neal was his responsibility, and he had let him down.

* * *

Kimberly Rice felt sick. Working in missing persons, she had seen a lot of horrible kidnappings over the years. Most had ended with a corpse (sometimes badly mutilated), but not all of them. She had seen more than her share of prisons. But she had never seen anything so sophisticated.

It wasn’t brutal, it wasn’t messy, but it was frightening in its efficiency. Keller had literary controlled every aspect of Caffrey’s life in the last months. Although it looked like he had taken care to keep Caffrey in good health, the mental strain must have been unbearable. Chained to a wall, under constant surveillance by the cameras, knowing that the chain might get shorter any moment…Kimberly couldn’t imagine how this must have felt.

Her hope of finding video footage of Keller with Caffrey, which would make the trial easier, was shattered when she examined the modern surveillance system setup closer. The cameras were connected to a DVR and the hard drive was overwritten automatically every 36 hours. Since Keller had been in their custody much longer than that, there surely wasn’t any footage of him left.

Ordering that the DVR should be moved into evidence, she vowed to herself that she would keep the content from Burke as long as possible. The last thing he needed was to watch Caffrey slowly succumbing to dehydration.

Leaving her assistant to finish the wrap-up, she went back to the FBI building. She would very much enjoy telling Keller’s lawyer about the new evidence against his client.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite the title of the TV show, the CSI in New York is actually called CSU.
> 
> Also, yes, I am aware that doctors are trained to not use their lingo when talking to patients or those waiting for news, but in my mind, that doctor was nervous about dealing with the FBI and reacted by falling back into "professional" language. I just had no way to make this clear in the text. Or at least I didn't found one.


	15. Chapter 15

Peter was distracted when he went into the Bureau the next morning. The image of Neal dying in his prison had haunted him during the night. Rice had decided to review the evidence and to delegate the last steps in wrapping up the case this morning. He just wanted to get the meeting out of the way and then he’d go to the hospital under the pretense of taking Neal’s statement.

To his delight, Rice had no objections to him going to the hospital, but insisted that he take her assistant with him. Peter knew what this was about. She wanted to forestall possible objections during the trial. He just wanted to leave, when a technician came into the office, visibly excited.

“You won’t believe it! We have this bastard nailed! He won’t be able to wriggle himself out of this one.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Rice. Peter put his briefcase back on the table.

“The cameras! I reviewed the evidence yesterday – most of it was useless. Some of the cameras in the room weren’t even real, and the other just caught the last days, and with very bad quality on top of that. Only the camera which covered the cot and the place he was painting was a high-end product. But the recording system had a technical defect.” It looked like Rice wanted to interrupt the technician, but he didn’t even notice her. “The system was set to overwrite the recording every 36 hours. The thing is, it didn’t. Sometimes it left a minute or so of the original recording. But when you replayed the recording, it simply skipped the segment it left out. I have never seen a defect like this before. I wouldn’t even have noticed it, if I hadn’t written down the exact length of the footage and noticed that the recording was 10 minutes too short.”

“So we have footage of Keller with Caffrey?” Rice finally managed to cut in. The technician nodded.

“It was a little tricky to retrieve it, but I managed to pull the old segments off the hard drive.” He gave Rice a disk, and with a glance to Peter, she reluctantly put the disk in the player.

The first segment showed Neal, lying unconscious on the cot. At first glance, one would think that the technician was mistaken, so similar was the pose to the one Peter had found Neal in. But there were subtle differences. This Neal had still the bronze skin of someone who loved lavish outdoor breakfasts, fresh air and walks in the park. The one Peter had seen in the hospital had pale skin and had lost a lot of weight. Taking in the difference, Peter angrily balled his fist. That has been Keller’s doing.

_brizzle _

This time, Neal was awake. He was working on something at the table, drawing something with careful strokes. The hands moved seemingly facilely, but his sweaty face was scrunched up in concentration.

_brizzle_

Neal was kneeling on the floor, near the wall, the chain on his collar taut, a newspaper on his lap. He looked tired.

“Knight to D4,” he said.

“That’s the spirit.” Keller entered the screen. “I knew you would only need a little bit of encouragement. Give me my newspaper back.”

Neal obeyed with unfocused motions. Keller grinned about this act of obedience.

“I want you to paint a Da Vinci.”

“Which one?”

“A completely new one. Be creative”

“Are you crazy? I can’t do this.”

“I thought we were over this. But if you prefer that I organize another accident….”

“Matthew, I can’t do this. I’m a forger; I can’t create something completely new.”

“Good, I’ll help you. I’ll give you a motif, something classical which may have struck Da Vinci’s interest. How about Helen of Troy?”

“I can’t!”

“You can and you will. Otherwi…”

_brizzle_

This time, Neal seemed to be alone again. He was staring intently at an empty canvas.

_brizzle_

Neal painting

_brizzle_

Still painting

_brizzle_

And painting, although the motif had changed now. Peter recognized the Ingres.

_brizzle_

A collective gasp went through the room. Neal’s hands were bound to the cot. He was lying on his stomach, his resigned face towards the camera. Keller was standing above him, caressing Neal’s back with the tip of a cane. Fast like a snake he took an upswing and hit Neal in a straight line from shoulder to hip. Neal gasped out in pain.

“That was the ‘M’. Only two strokes left. But who knows, perhaps this time I’ll draw a second mark on your back. You deserve it.”

Neal didn’t answer; he didn’t show any obvious reaction at all. But Peter wasn’t fooled. He could see the hidden nervousness, how Neal fought to keep himself from trying to see Keller because he wanted to know if the next stroke was coming. And Keller, the sadistic bastard, waited until the main pain from the last stroke was over, before he raised the cane again and….

_brizzle_

Keller was sitting in front of Neal, a wineglass in his hand. “Your ability for delusion really astounds me. You are just a felon. Did you really think that your Agent Burke would believe in your innocence?”

Peter’s stomach clenched painfully.

“I’m hardly an innocent. But Peter always hunts for the truth. He will catch you.”

“At the moment, he only hunts for you. After all, you did forge a Da Vinci.”

Neal didn’t answer. He swiveled his glass in a circular motion, staring into the wine with a pensive expression.

“Oh, are you sad?” sneered Keller. “Burke didn’t even spend one second on pursuing other explanations for your disappearance. He doesn’t trust you.”

_brizzle_

The chain of Neal’s collar was vanishing at the right side of the frame. Neal seemed to be busy somewhere else.

_brizzle_

This was the familiar picture of Neal, confined to the cot. He was lying on his back, looking at the nearly-empty bottle in his hand. Then he put it to his lips, keeping it there unduly long, making sure that even the last drop of water found its way into his mouth.

At this point, Rice stopped the recording. “I think this is enough. We know that Keller was already in custody at this point.” She glanced at Peter. “Agent Burke, aren’t you supposed to be at the hospital? We need Caffrey’s statement as soon as possible.”

Wordlessly Peter left the office, haunted by the images of Neal, trapped in a hopeless situation, but adamant that he would search for him.

* * *

Neal had already gotten a lot of visitors. The first one was Mozzie, who nearly gave him a heart attack when he woke up during the night and saw him as a dark figure at his bedside. Mozzie first had given him a fast run-down about everything which had happened in his absence, and then complained endlessly about bone-headed FBI agents who nearly put him out of business with their inquiries. While feeling grateful that Mozzie had come into the “giant bacteria- and virus-breeding place” to see him, Neal didn’t feel strong enough to deal with his quirks yet, so he soon faked sleep.

The morning greeted him with a (much too early) breakfast consisting of oatmeal and Jell-o. His initial disgust turned into understanding, when his stomach rebelled slightly even against this sort of light food. He barely managed to keep everything he ate down, which wasn’t much to begin with.

June and Elizabeth turned up at the beginning of visiting hours. Elizabeth only stayed a short time, but promised to be back in the afternoon. June brought clothes and other useful things from his loft. Relieved, Neal exchanged the hospital clothes for one of his own pajamas as soon as possible, a task which really drove home how weak his body was.

June signaled her readiness to stay for the whole day, against Neal’s protest, and soon brought up in a light chatter everything which was going on in her life. Neal allowed the words to wash over him, thinking about Peter. Why wasn’t he here yet? El had said that he intended to come as soon as possible, but the clock was ticking towards midday and he was not in sight.

When he finally came (and convinced June to come back later), he came with another agent in tow to take his statement. Neal felt profoundly disappointed. Tonelessly he recounted his kidnapping, telling everything with the exception of the beatings. It wasn’t important in the long run, and he really didn’t feel like getting too much into the details. When he finished, Peter nodded.

“One last question: How often did he beat you?”

Neal flinched. “How do you know…?”

“We have video footage. I’m actually surprised that there is nothing in the medical report.”

“He tried to avoid drawing blood. I think he didn’t want to risk damaging me permanently,” Neal answered dismissively. “How much did you see?” And who else saw the footage?

“Enough to know that it wasn’t a one-time occurrence.”

“He only did it two times.”

“Neal…,” Peter said warningly

“I’m telling the truth. One time because I hid my signature in the letter I had to forge; the other time because you found the Helen painting. He was really angry about that.” Why, oh why did he always have to explain himself to Peter?

Surprisingly, Peter just nodded, declared that they had everything they needed, and sent the agent away. But as soon as they were alone he asked again: “He really didn’t do anything else to you?”

Neal’s annoyance was diminished a little bit when he recognized the honest worry in Peter’s voice.

“He needed me healthy, so he made sure I stayed that way. Really, as prison cells go, this one was downright comfortable.”

“Was it?” Peter was looking pointedly at the red line of irritated skin around Neal’s throat.

“It will heal,” Neal stressed. He really didn’t want to go into details.

Silence fell over the room. Suddenly, Peter said: “I’m sorry, Neal.”

Neal gave him a questioning look, inviting him to elaborate.

“I shouldn’t have assumed the worst of you immediately. I should have considered that something may have happened to you.”

“Why didn’t you?” Neal asked. He wasn’t really angry with Peter. After all, he did steal the key to his anklet himself. But he felt hurt nevertheless. “It wasn’t the first time someone tried to frame me - or kidnapped me.”

“You weren’t there to tell me the truth,” Peter said.

“Trust but verify?”

“Something like that.”

Neal observed Peter carefully. He obviously felt guilty. Mozzie would have called him a golden apple ripe for picking. Nobody was easier to con than an honest man, beating himself up about something.

“What’ll happen the next time?” he asked.

“Hopefully there won’t be a next time.” Peter’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Unless you’re planning one.”

“You’re doing it again,” Neal pointed out. With some satisfaction he saw Peter’s confident facade crumbling.

“I really, really want to trust you. But Neal, we both know that you’ll always be a flight risk until Kate’s murder is solved. And even after that, the temptation will always be there.”

“I thought you were feeling guilty about mistrusting me.”

“Yes – no…no, I feel guilty about not giving you the benefit of the doubt. You deserve as much.”

Now Neal became really annoyed. “How gracious of you. You are a hypocrite.”

“I’m what?”

“You do this all the time. When we’re in your car, we have to follow your rules. But when you’re in my home, you don’t respect my wishes at all.”

“…if this is still about the couch…”

“…you treat me like a child all the time…”

“…you are a big child…”

“…but you expect me to do a man’s job, a job I don’t have the right training for…”

“…you offered…”

“...you were angry with Rice for using me for her own gain, but you don’t even ask me anymore if I’m ready to go undercover. I’m supposed to be your consultant, not your slave!”

“Neal…”

“No! Leave me alone.” Neal turned himself on his side, his back to Peter. “Just leave me alone.” After a long moment, he heard retreating steps and a door opening and closing. Peter was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I don't know if the defect described in this chapter is possible. I honestly doubt it. Just roll with it. I claim creative freedom on this one.


	16. Chapter 16

When the door opened again, Neal glanced over his shoulder. He half hoped, half feared that Peter was coming back, even though he thought that the person at the door was most likely June. Elizabeth was a total surprise.

“What are you doing here?” he blurted out.

“I told you I’d be back.”

“In the afternoon. It’s barely midday.”

“I have a very competent assistant, who readily took over most of my work. Care to explain to me why my husband is pacing down in the lobby?” She sat down at the chair beside Neal’s bed.

“We had a … discussion.”

“This looks more like a full-blown argument. He’s really agitated.”

Neal studiously avoided El’s questioning eyes. “I only told him some truths.”

“Did you really have to lay into him that hard? He felt bad enough as it is.”

“What for? It’s not like he generally cares about my opinion. This time shouldn’t be any different.”

“Are you out of your mind? Peter risked everything for you. Your disappearance nearly cost him his career.”

“That wasn’t my fault.”

“It wasn’t his fault either.”

“He didn’t even consider that I didn’t leave voluntarily.”

“Did he have reason to?”

“I just thought … well, that he knows me better by now. I wouldn’t leave without sending him a message.”

“You did send a message. A nice little card and the key to your anklet.”

What? Mozzie hadn’t mentioned that tidbit. Keller had a lot to answer for.

“I didn’t….”

“Yes, but Peter didn’t know that. But he knew that you might skip custody one day. He knew from the very first day that Kate was such a big motivator that you could throw everything away in a spur-of-the-moment decision. And he knew that he would have to pay the price should this happen. He helped you nevertheless.”

Great, now Neal felt bad far laying into Peter. El was right: Peter had done so much for him. Nevertheless he felt some resentment against him. Suddenly he realized something.

“I wasn’t angry with him until he apologized.”

“So you’re angry because he’s capable of wallowing in guilt without any reason?” El asked, amused.

Neal thought about it. Then he sighed.

“I’m not sure anymore.”

* * *

“Well, it looks like I missed some action during my lunch break.”

Peter interrupted his pacing and turned around. “Hello, June.”

June sat down on one of the plastic chairs in the lobby like she was a queen claiming her throne. “I hope you didn’t agitate Neal too much. He is in a very fragile state.”

Peter slumped down in the chair in front of her. “El’s up there, making sure that he’s okay,” he explained guiltily.

“So you did agitate him.”

“I only wanted to apologize,” Peter defended himself. “And suddenly he was accusing me of treating him like a slave. I don’t even know where this came from.”

June made an “Ah” tone which annoyed Peter even further.

“What?”

She smiled. “It was the same with Byron. When he came back to me, he had trouble dealing with the way people saw him, especially people he respected.”

“It’s the price you have to pay when you stray away from the straight and narrow. People don’t tend to trust you.”

“True. But it wasn’t the lack of trust which bothered Byron. It was the way people kept treating him like his opinions weren’t important anymore. Once, my mother told him that he didn’t have any say in the way we celebrated Christmas because he chose to ignore the ideals the holiday represents and because he wasn’t there the two years beforehand.”

“Ouch … what did you do?”

“I threw her out of the house. It was his first Christmas with his family in years; I wouldn’t allow anyone to ruin it. He felt bad about causing the rift with my mother, but I think he would have felt even worse if she had stayed. She would have ripped into him the whole time, and he would have had no means to defend himself.”

“Because he felt bad for what he had done?”

“No, because he felt bad for getting caught, leaving me alone for such a long time. And because he was so thankful that I stuck with him that he didn’t want to antagonize me. It took some time to discourage him from this notion. I didn’t want to live with a powder keg.”

“A powder keg?”

“A relationship can’t work in the long run if one party is always hiding his feelings. All the pent-up anger will explode sooner or later. It’s not healthy.”

Peter considered her words. Then he said: “Will you excuse me? I think I need to have a word with Neal.”

* * *

“Hi, honey. Can I talk to Neal alone?”

“Sure... I think I need a coffee. Want one, too?”

“Yes. June’s in the lobby, she can surely tell you where you can find a real one.”

“Will do!”

The door closed behind Elizabeth. Neal watched Peter with trepidation.

“Peter, I’m….”

“Say not a word! Not until I’ve told you what I have to say.”

Neal gulped, but stayed calm.

“I spent hours yesterday sorting out the paperwork for you, to prevent you from getting transferred to a prison infirmary as soon as possible. I made sure that you can come back as consultant as soon as you are better.”

Now Neal felt even worse. Again he tried to say something, but Peter gestured to him to stay silent.

“But before you come back, I want to make one point totally clear: You’re not my slave. The next time I give you a dangerous assignment without asking you first, you call me on it. The next time you have a bad feeling about an undercover mission, tell me, and I will hear you out. And I promise I will try to respect your privacy more.”

Neal couldn’t believe what he just heard. “No longer sending Jones out to spy on me? No longer pulling my tracking data every day?”

“Don’t push it!”

Neal smiled. “I won’t. And Peter, I’m really sorry. This whole mess with Keller, this wasn’t your fault.”

“I made a mistake not considering a kidnapping.”

“You had no reason to. Peter, I’m the one who let you down once already. And I’m the one who…” Neal paused, and then rephrased what he intended to say. “…would have stolen the key if presented with the right opportunity.” That came as close to a confession as Neal was able to.

“You would have used it too.”

“Perhaps, one day. But I promise you, I would never go this way, taunting you. If anything, I would send you a letter full of apologies for letting you down.”

“Do you really think that an apology would cut it?”

“No, it wouldn’t.”

For nearly five minutes the room was totally silent, save for the typical hospital sounds.

“So, where does this leave us?” Neal finally asked.

“I guess, exactly where we were. I trust that you won’t run without a good reason and you can trust that I’ll keep an eye on you.”

Neal laughed. “I wouldn’t want it any other way. As long as we understand each other.”

Peter smiled. “I think we do now.”


	17. Chapter 17

Two months later Neal entered the visitor’s room of the Supermax. Calmly he took the earpiece from its bracket. Keller grinned triumphantly from the other side of the glass. “I knew you couldn’t resist.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I could easily do without seeing you again. And I know that you know nothing about Kate, despite your message which suggested otherwise. You told me so yourself.”

“I might have lied back then.”

“Or you lie now. Your word isn’t worth shit either way.”

“If you didn’t believe me, why did you come nevertheless?”

Neal paused for a moment to sort out the right words in his mind.

“Call it idle curiosity. I’ve never seen this room from this perspective.”

“Nice view?”

“At least a better one.”

Keller sighed. Then, obviously making a decision, he leaned forward and asked: “How did you do it? I mean, I got how you managed to hide all those messages in your work. I really cursed when my lawyer informed me about all that evidence against me. But how did you know where I held you? How did you know when to put the origami in my pocket? You couldn’t know that I would get arrested that day.”

Neal smiled. “Your arrogance was a big help, like always.”

“I don’t understand.…”

“The nice little dinner you served me. It was your dinner of doom; it gave me everything I needed.”

“Yes, you got the lemon that way, but I was careful to hide all signs from the takeout service.”

“But you couldn’t hide the meal itself. The _Giselle_ always prepares the meal in a specific manner. For example, two half lemon slices on the sole, in a trademark position relative to each other. Your steak was characteristic, too.”

Keller snorted. “I should have known. And the origami?”

“Lucky guess. Peter knows that I’m especially fond of this particular Matisse in the Met. I’d hoped that he had set up a sting.”

Keller snorted. “So he knows the habits of his pet convict, does he?”

Those words, designed to hurt Neal, brought a smile on his face. “Yes, I guess he does. If that’s everything ….”

“I heard they didn’t count the time spent in captivity for your sentences.”

“No, they didn’t. But Peter says that he’s trying to arrange a hearing with a parole board when my three years are over.”

“Look at that. The great Neal Caffrey, tamed by a Fed. How far the mighty have fallen!”

“I’m not the one who’ll spend the next decade behind bars. Unlike you, I can walk out of here anytime.”

Demonstratively, Neal put the earpiece back in its place and left his chair. Waving mockingly good-bye to Keller, he left the room. At the door he turned around to a seething Keller one last time and mouthed a single word to him.

“Checkmate!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that it is. I hope you all enjoyed this little story, weather you already knew it or not. If you did, it would be nice to leave a comment as thanks. I joyfully take constructive criticism (I actually thrive on it). 
> 
> I guess next I'll post a few of my Sentinel fanfictions.


End file.
